


To Mark A Friend's Remains

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Slash, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Injury Recovery, On the Run, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes some getting used to, this afterlife. Sherlock tries to adjust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Mark A Friend's Remains

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this May/June of this year, thought it was terrible, reread it yesterday, and wondered why the hell I didn't post it. It leaves off at a very open place, but I think it fits the story well. 
> 
> The title comes from a poem by Lord Byron.

“Goodbye John.”

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and peels his eyes from the small figure on the ground below. He steadies himself with his arms out to his sides, ready to jump.

John’s scream follows him down, down, down, and sets the soundtrack for the next two years.

.....

Molly has a cat. Sherlock knew this before, of course, but as he stands in the doorway of Molly’s small flat with crusted blood in his hair and a hollowed out place in his chest, he realises that, on the whole, he doesn’t know all that much about Molly Hooper.

The cat (Toby, Molly tells him) curls itself around his legs as Sherlock hangs his coat, rubbing against his trousers.

Molly shuffles him to the living room, where Sherlock sits on her squishy couch; Toby jumps up beside him, and Sherlock finds himself automatically reaching out a hand to rub behind his ears.

“I can help wrap your ribs, if you want,” Molly offers. Sherlock bruised them when he landed and while he knows it’s fortunate he didn’t hurt anything else, his breaths are more shallow to compensate for the flare of pain that accompanies them.

“Thank you,” he says, which is a poor way to express the gratitude(?) that he is feeling. But Molly understands, because she disappears down the hall and Sherlock can hear her rummaging through a cabinet in her bathroom. She comes back holding gauze, scissors, and a bottle of paracetamol, and Sherlock shrugs out of his suit jacket and shirt. Molly’s cheeks turn a bit pink, but she doesn’t say anything and her hands are steady as she winds the gauze around his chest. When she is finished she snips off the gauze and tucks the end into the bandaging, then looks up with a sliver of a smile.

“All finished,” she tells him, and Sherlock doesn’t even snap at her for stating the obvious.

.....

Molly provides him with a cup of tea and a cheese toastie, along with two paracetamol. Sherlock swallows the pills with ease, and devours the toastie, surprised by his own hunger. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate.

Toby and Molly keep him company, unobtrusively; Toby has curled up beside him, and Molly is sitting in the large armchair across the room, sipping her own tea and watching some show on the telly about a flying police box. Sherlock feels her eyes land on him from time to time, but he avoids her gaze. The light is flicked off at some point, though Sherlock can’t remember when, and as the flickering glow of the telly fills the room the couch gets more and more comfortable; Sherlock can feel himself sinking into the cushions, can feel himself drifting off then jerk awake at a sound from the telly.

He falls asleep there, slumped over. He misses the end of the program, and when Molly covers him with a blanket and quietly leaves for bed, he doesn’t wake, breathing even with slumber.

.....

“Sh’lock, pl’s,” John pleads, fingers curled tight in Sherlock’s lapels. The words are thick with pain, and blood bubbles out of John’s mouth as he speaks.

Sherlock presses down harder against John’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to stop stop stop it. “I’m trying, John, just stay here, stay with me please---”

Even as he begs, his hands turn red and the life in John’s eyes fades; death doesn’t negotiate.

.....

Sherlock jolts awake to a pounding heart and skin that is damp with sweat; the taste of salt has invaded his mouth, and his cheeks are itchy with drying tears.

He is off the couch and stumbling down the hall to the lav before he can think, ribs protesting sharply. He slams to his knees in front of the toilet. He takes a breath, then leans over and wretches, transport taking control as his mind goes blank.

The taste of acid clings to his teeth when he’s finished, still gripping the porcelain sides of the toilet with white knuckles. Sherlock pulls one off, then reaches up weakly and holds the lever to flush; the sound is loud in his overly sensitive ears.

He sits back, leaning against the tub, and curls his fingers into his hair, pulling hard. The pain brings more tears to his eyes, but also grounds him in the present, instead of the fears of his subconscious. He viciously crushes the desire that swirls in his chest to find John and….no. He can’t.

He focuses on his heartbeat, which slows as he counts his breaths and releases them slowly; his ribs are beginning to make themselves known now, and when he struggles up from the floor they flare, making him hiss. The paracetamol is back in the medicine cabinet, and he grinds two between his molars and washes away the taste with water he drinks straight from the sink. He also uses some of Molly’s toothpaste and a spare toothbrush, letting the taste and smell of mint overtake his senses.

.....

He’s inside all the time, because he can’t risk being recognised. It is horrifyingly boring, but he spends most of his time scouring the web with Molly’s laptop, backdoor hacking into government databases and delving into records of terrorists groups, trying to find anything that traces back to Moriarty; learning as much as he can about the assassins hired for John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. The search takes up most of his time-- he does not sleep unless he passes out at Molly’s kitchen table with a cup of tea or Molly seizes the laptop, insisting he take a break.

Molly sets up accounts for him at a few of the major international banks. Her eyes go wide when she sees the starting deposit, but Sherlock knows how much it takes to ensure his account requirements are met. Money is necessary, if he is to survive.

.....

Toby grows to like him. Sherlock pretends he is apathetic, even as he scratches behind Toby’s ears when they sit on the couch together.

.....

He leaves Molly’s flat exactly seven days after he came; she pops out for groceries and Sherlock takes the opportunity to pack the few changes of clothes Molly bought him in a simple canvas bag, preparing to go. He takes Molly’s laptop-- he thinks the money he had transferred to her account will make up the cost of a new one. He throws away the empty bottle of shampoo he used, cleans the mug he used that morning, and when he is finished all traces of a temporary flatmate are gone.

Toby watches him all the while, his eyes tracking Sherlock’s movement with something Sherlock imagines - if he were the type to imagine things of that sort, of course - to be resignation. When Sherlock shoulders his bag, Toby hops down from the couch and slinks toward him. Their goodbye is brief, just a head nudge against Sherlock’s offered hand, but it’s enough; when Sherlock stands from his half-crouch, he feels a little more confident about leaving.

As he closes the door behind him, he finds himself hoping Molly understands.

.....

He doesn’t quite know where he’s going. He knows the assassins are biding their time in London, but he can’t touch them, not yet. The empire Moriarty left behind is vast - if Sherlock threw a dart at a map, it’d likely land on a country he’d sunk his fangs into - and the rest of the web must be torn down before Sherlock can pursue the leftover spiders.

So he walks. He alters his footfalls and posture to counteract the familiarity of his coat, and walks. He takes the footpath across a bridge, studying the Thames as it flows beneath him. It is a cloudy, grey day, cold for June, and the moisture in the air bites against his exposed skin. He walks, and walks, melting into crowds and thinking.

His hindbrain leads him to a cemetery without him realising, and it is only when he stands in front of the gates that he comes back to himself. He knows which cemetery it is; it is the one that was filmed by vulture-like journalists two days prior as a coffin carrying someone that is not him proceeded to a gaping hole in the ground. Sherlock watched his own funeral on the telly, face blank as he caught sight of Mycroft and Lestrade and Angelo and Mrs Hudson dressed in black. Donovan and Anderson weren’t there. Neither was John.

Now, Sherlock walks into the cemetery with hesitant feet, morbidly curious about his headstone; he is halfway across when he sees the heart-wrenchingly familiar figures going in the same direction. Mrs Hudson pats John comfortingly, and wanders off to give him privacy.

John. He seems….tired, heavy. His wrinkles are more pronounced than ever, and Sherlock realises with a start as he creeps behind a tree to watch that John looks, for the first time, terribly _old_ , like his bones are weary and reluctant to move.

“Don’t be dead,” John asks of him. Sherlock yearns to do exactly that. Instead, he presses his forehead against the rough bark of the tree and waits for them (him) to leave before dragging himself away.

.....

He eats a basket of greasy fish and chips while sitting on a park bench, then acquires a box of blond hair dye, a pair of scissors, and a cheap hotel room. He brushes his teeth with the toothbrush and toothpaste he took from Molly’s, then stands before the slightly-cracked mirror in his room’s lav and takes the scissors in hand. Beneath the dim lighting he cuts his hair short, letting the black curls float down and cover the counter; when he is through, he runs his fingers through the newly-shorn strands and blinks at his reflection. He is eerily reminded of his time in rehab, when his hair was cut short as he tried to break his addiction.

He breaks open the box of hair dye and skims the instructions, then sets the water to running. It takes an hour, in total, and when he is finished a new man he does not know is staring back at him and the small lav reeks of fumes. He flicks on the fan, which whirs to half-hearted life, then sits on the bed and stares blankly at the wall.

He feels lost.

.....

The sky outside the windows in his mind palace is dark, with the occasional flash of lightning and crack of thunder. Sherlock sits in one of the large armchairs in the study, contemplating a glass of scotch.

The alcohol doesn’t taste quite the same as it would in reality, but it still has a sweet burn down his throat; the warmth pools in his chest and when combined with the heat of the fire, provides the closest thing to comfort Sherlock has felt since he died.

“What’s the matter, Sherly?” a voice taunts, and Sherlock looks up to find Jim Moriarty perched in the opposite armchair, devilish smile in place. “Are you feeling _lonesome_?”

“Go. away,” Sherlock growls, and Jim pouts.

“So rude.”

“ _Now_.”

Jim shrugs artfully and unfolds himself from the chair; his fingers trail over Sherlock’s shoulder as he walks by, and Sherlock can feel their chill seep through his clothing.

“Farewell, Sherlock,” Jim says when he reaches the door. The murmured last half of his departure is cut off by the door closing, but Sherlock still hears the two words clearly:

“For now.”

Any illusion of comfort is shattered, and Sherlock opens his eyes to the bleak hotel room once more.

.....

It has gone dark; the digital clock on the bedside table informs him it is just after midnight. Sherlock stands and flicks on the bedside lamp, then rustles through his bag and pulls out the laptop. The hotel didn’t advertise free wifi, but his interaction with the manager earlier makes it ridiculously easy to crack the password to the staff’s internet.

He buys a plane ticket to Amsterdam. He has no intention of using it, but anyone who’s watching won’t know that. When he’s finished the transaction, he changes into pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, turns off the light, and lies on top of the duvet. His eyes are scratchy with exhaustion as he shifts onto his side, but every time he closes them he remembers Moriarty’s sharp grin and John’s voice, clogged with tears.

He rolls over, puts the light back on again, and stares at the wall for a long time until sleep claims him.

.....

He drifts back into consciousness, and blearily looks at the clock; it’s barely half six, and Sherlock still aches with fatigue. Still, best to get up now then try and fail to sleep again.

He drags himself out of bed and into the shower, turning the knob to nearly all the way to the left and sucking in lungfuls of steam as he stands under the hot spray. The beat of water against his scalp helps quiet his thoughts as he washes; when he’s finished he uses one of the hotel’s towels and briskly dries himself before dressing. The jumper he pulls over his head is cable knit in a particularly bland shade of oatmeal-- he is sharply reminded of John, then pushes away the longing.

The flight he’s not going to be on takes off four days from now; he needs to be out of the country before then.

.....

Charing Cross is large and loud, teeming with people. Sherlock buys a ticket to Dover; he sits on a hard bench with his legs crossed at the ankles waiting for the train, affecting boredom but watching the crowd with sharp eyes.

He doesn’t expect to be thrown into the past at the sound of his train being announced.

.....

“Sorry, we’re going where, exactly?”

Sherlock shot John a brief glare over his shoulder. “Don’t be obtuse, John. We’re going to Dover, obviously.”

“‘Obviously’?” John exclaimed. “How could it be obvious? You showed up at the surgery in the middle of my shift and dragged me out-- and then I find out you’ve already packed me a bag, and we’re going to Charing Cross, where we’re boarding a train to god knows where!”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer, because really, John needed to learn how to apply his methods at some point, and simply led them onto the train and to their seats, snagging the one closest to the window despite John’s sigh.

It was only after the train pulled out and was chugging down the rails out of London that John spoke again.

“So tell me about this case we’ve got, then.”

.....

Sherlock blinks as the flashback abruptly comes to a finish and stands, body working automatically to get on the train and walk down the aisles until he finds his seat even as his mind is still reeling.

He’d nearly forgotten about that trip-- the case, such as it was, was terribly dull in the end. There was little he’d bothered to save from deletion. John’s surprising knowledge of Dover’s history, which he dispersed throughout their tour of the place while waiting for their train back the next morning, certainly. The heat of John’s body next to his in the bed they’d shared (“it’s more economical, John, don’t be boring”) the night before.

“Ticket?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Sherlock smiles thinly and presents his ticket to the conductor, who stamps it and then hands it back with a grin.

“Have a nice trip, sir,” he says, and moves on to the next seat.

Sherlock stares at his ticket and wonders, somewhat ridiculously, if “a nice trip” is something dead people are capable of having.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/con crit always welcome!


End file.
